


Differential Pressure

by eris



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris/pseuds/eris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey," Reese offers with a vacant smile. "At least we won't suffocate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Differential Pressure

"Harold," Reese says. "I can _hear you typing_."

There is an involuntary intake of breath, then: "I thought I should--"

Reese opens his eyes and Finch flinches away from the look. Without his glasses Finch's face is more expressive, all the pinched angles in sudden sharp relief. It makes Reese's skin itch, but there's nothing to be done for it; he broke the frames to pick their handcuffs hours ago. He should probably be thankful there's even a light by which to see his face. "That door," Reese re-iterates slowly, "is three feet thick. We are at least fifty feet underground and the walls are steel-reinforced concrete. So unless you know how to MacGyver that phone into an oxyacetylene torch, you need to sit down and save your energy, because you are not gonna get signal."

"I am fully aware of our circumstances, Mr Reese," Finch says. "You'll have to forgive me that I feel somehow inclined to exhaust every possibility before welcoming a very slow and very painful death by dehydration."

Reese's wrists are throbbing, but all the bleeding has stopped. There's a bruise forming along Finch's left temple, a fleck of blood staining his white collar, and his hair is mussed with sweat, sticking in strange directions. They've certainly had worse. If Reese could ignore the two-tonne door standing between them and the rest of their lives he could almost appreciate the opportunity to study Finch's adrenalin response in such acute, uninterrupted proximity; Finch dressed down to shirtsleeves half-unbuttoned is a rare sight all on its own. He can't ignore it, though, not with the way Finch's confidence has begun to splinter at the edges already.

"Hey," Reese offers with a vacant smile. "At least we won't suffocate."

"Oh, that's very comforting," Finch scowls. The phone's screen flickers off, though, and Finch slides down, arranges his limbs gingerly so that he can sit against the wall opposite Reese.

He could get at least another three or four hours out of the mobile battery if he turned off the radio antenna, but he won't, so its use must be carefully rationed; the phone gives Finch somewhere to focus. If Reese can stretch its life as long as possible, he can protract the inevitable breakdown, and just maybe by then exhaustion will keep things from getting too messy. Finch is certainly a man who prefers to fall apart in neat, barely perceptible increments.

Finch's hands are already twitching for the button, so Reese says, "Leon might have got the voicemail after all." His own phone had been confiscated too soon for any such confirmation.

Finch sighs and folds his arms, leaning back. "If there were actually any money in this vault I would feel a lot more comfortable with the odds of Mr Tao's daring rescue."

"Have a little faith, Harold," Reese says, closing his eyes once again. "He doesn't _know_ there's no money here."

  


***

  


"I know what you're thinking," Finch says, and his tempo's off, a bit too fast and too sharp. He doesn't smell even a little bit like aftershave any more. There's a trickle of sweat winding down his forehead, catching at the corner of his eye. He's close enough he does not strain to focus on Reese's face, but his eyes seem too wide and too bright without the barrier of his lenses.

"You know exactly everything about me," Reese drawls, unfolding his legs and stretching out, toe just short of brushing Finch's shoes.

Finch ignores it. "You think I'm going to--I don't know, go _insane_?" He shakes his head at the words, exaggerated emphasis.

It would be ironic, were he to actually escape, Reese thinks vaguely. Stress manifested agoraphobia after the previous incident, but he's fairly sure Finch won't want to see any confined spaces for a while now, either. "I think you're already insane, Finch," he says. "Why else would you be trying to pick up wifi in a fifth sub-basement when you could be playing Bejeweled?"

"I admit I do not relish the prospect of headaches and hallucinations," Finch continues, jaw set. "But I like to think I've earned a _little_ more credit by now."

He has a textbook understanding of dehydration symptoms, Reese is sure. He has a textbook understanding of almost everything. Reese flexes his fingers in his lap. If it comes down to it, he could make it quick and painless, anyway--for Finch, at least. He says, "You're thinking too much, Harold."

Finch stares at him for a moment, mouth half-open, and the sheer reckless obviousness of his face makes something in Reese's chest twist in on itself strangely. "How can you just-- _give up_?" he demands, jerking his hand vaguely skyward. Denial has set in already. He's rapidly shifting toward anger, which is fine; it'll tire him out quickly, and then maybe he will finally give in to sleep.

"Well, the number doesn't really seem to need our services any longer," Reese says with a shrug. "Seems he wants us to get comfy right in here."

"Yes," Finch says impatiently. He's clenched his hands into fists now, but he probably doesn't realise it yet. "We miscalculated. Are we to die meekly while he enacts the real robbery and murders his partner as well? Or do you even _care_?"

"Everything I care about is in here," John doesn't say.

  


***

  


Thirteen hours. Finch's phone would not stop beeping a low-power warning; he has since removed the battery and thrown the thing at the opposite wall. It sits in two forlorn pieces of snapped plastic and cracked glass near John's hip. Finch has closed his eyes, but he isn't asleep. John is staring at his neck and wondering whether it's still possible to break or whether he would have to resort to strangulation when Finch swallows and opens his eyes abruptly, staring right back. He mostly sounds thoughtful when he says, "This is certainly not the end I expected."

"With a whimper," John murmurs agreeably. His eyes have begun to burn from not blinking, but Finch looks away first.

  


***

  


Seventeen hours. Leon would have been back to the library for certain. It's reasonable to operate on the assumption he hasn't checked the voicemail.

There is no contingency, this time. They both know as much.

"John," Finch starts to say, and his voice is level now, calm, but that makes something catch in John's own throat, a sudden thrashing feeling disconcertingly near to panic. So he cuts Finch off and says, "I'm sorry."

Finch frowns. "John--"

"I should've left you at the library." The words sound somehow flat, like they're in an echo-dampening chamber. Distant from him. Spilling from somewhere outside his control. "There wasn't anything--"

"Don't," Finch snaps, so he doesn't. He closes his eyes but there's still a peculiar inertia pulling at him, shivering through his nerves, and it feels less vertiginous when he fixates on Finch's face. There is resignation there, tender and tired, and he _hates_ it, even though he'd prepared for it hours ago. "I am sorry to say I have many regrets in my life," Finch is saying now, softly--delivering his own eulogy already. "But this has never been one of them."

"You don't regret dying underground in a disused bank vault?" John tries, weakly, and Finch's mouth twitches in some vague approximation of a smile.

"I don't regret what we've been able to accomplish together," Harold continues, but halfway through the sentence John says, "I love you."

Harold doesn't seem to parse it for long moments after, because his expression remains exactly the same, until it doesn't, until his irises flare with alarm and he opens his mouth again, but at precisely that moment there's a tremor, then the groan of steel rods in motion, and a crack of fluorescent light shining through.

"Hey, you guys alive?" Leon shouts through the gap. "Oh god, I thought for sure you'd have like, suffocated, and I'd have to take Bear and my lease doesn't even allow dogs. I would _so_ get a fine, or _evicted_ , and--"

John's joints protest audibly when he pushes himself up. He takes Finch's arm and pulls him up too, letting him steady himself against the wall. Finch is about to say something, but John lets go quickly so that he can help Leon push open the door. He looks right into the light and smiles, razor-thin. "Getting rusty, Leon. Couldn't crack a 50-year-old safe?"

"There's a programmed delay on the lock!" Leon cries indignantly. "I cracked it three hours ago."

"And didn't inform the proper authorities, for reasons I suspect involved precious metals? Nice of you to join us, Mr Tao," Finch says behind him. His voice is thready but he's standing without aid. "I trust you received my message."

"Yeah, yeah, Detective Bosslady's cuffing the robbers as we speak. Hey," and Leon is already pouting, brow furrowed as he cranes over John's shoulder--"there's no gold in there!"

  


***

  


Finch calls a car with Leon's phone, and spends the entire ride back to the library setting up a new one for himself, fingers moving so frantically on the small screen Reese can barely make out any breaks in the input. An empty water bottle rolls around on the floor at his feet, ignored--the only remaining evidence of any alteration to his usual temperament. He drank the entirety of the thing in under 30 seconds after Reese forced it on him, but he hasn't looked up from the screen since. Mercifully, small talk has never been an expectation between them.

He falters briefly on the stairs outside the building, but catches his balance on the rail before Reese can reach out.

"Bear, hier," Finch calls ahead, but Bear's paws are already skittering toward them, and the next several minutes are spent in the blessed simplicity of dog-wrangling. Finch is well and truly filthy by the end of it, swimming in sweat and slobber and dog hair, and John's throat aches with it, eyes prickling when Finch isn't looking, which is most of the time.

Finally, when Bear has settled enough to sit, still and panting at Finch's side, Reese rallies himself and says, "are you staying here or do I see you to a safe house?" in a tone that brooks no argument of any alternatives.

Finch pats Bear's head a last time and works his way back to his feet, brushing uselessly at the fur on his slacks as he does so. He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly, and the motion seems to smooth something at his brow, so that he looks suddenly so calm and collected he could just as well have been wearing the usual three-piece suit. "It occurs to me I have yet to say thank you, John."

Reese lifts an incredulous brow, sure he can manage that much expression at least. "You're welcome?"

Finch takes a step forward, and John fights the irrational urge to step back, but it's too late, it must be, he's already played his hand--"thank you," Harold repeats, carefully, openly studying John's face. He hasn't found a new pair of glasses yet. His eyes are impossibly blue. "I imagine this experience would have been far more... unpleasant, without your influence."

"Yeah," John agrees blankly, "I'm often told I have a pacifying effect," but the words trail off into nothing because Harold lays a hand on his shoulder, then drags it up to his neck. Harold says, "You're thinking too much, John," and it feels like every part of him is breaking away, pulled out with a tide.

"Harold," he whispers, choking on it, "please," but Harold smothers the sound with his mouth, and it's like floating and drowning all at once. It's like falling apart, but when he opens his eyes after, they are both still standing whole.

"I thought we would go to your apartment." Harold rests his forehead against John's face, exhaling the ghost of a laugh. "If Bear promises to behave, of course." His ears are pink and he looks five seconds from passing out with exhaustion and John loves him so much it is physically painful, but it's also maybe the best thing he has ever felt in his life.

He stops thinking, because every elementary particle of his body is vibrating one single answer, which probably makes it the right one after all.

"Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> complete idfic written in response to the kinkmeme prompt: "Absolutely sure they're going to die, Reese confesses his feelings to a surprised Finch,feelings he never would have mentioned otherwise. Before Finch can respond, they're rescued."


End file.
